Where the Streams Meet

By Harriet Curtis-Lowe

A romance that crossed continents ... A tour of duty ... A spiritual awakening.
True story of how the author, a Flight Lieutenant in the RAF, met and married an Indian man; and of how exposure to different cultures led her on a spiritual journey from 'party girl' to learning about, and being transformed by, Hinduism in India, and Islam during her RAF service in Afghanistan.
"Love can grow in so many ways, if the heart is willing to hear. It was as though we were at the meeting point of two streams, West and East, the spirit and the mind. It would be the place where we would find each other again in difficult times, the point of compromise, of understanding."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chaplin Books
• Release date: Sep 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781909183605

Book preview

Title page

Where the Streams Meet

by Harriet Curtis-Lowe

Publisher information

First published in 2014 by

Chaplin Books

1 Eliza Place

Gosport PO12 4UN

www.chaplinbooks.co.uk

Digital edition converted and distributed in 2014 by

Andrews UK Limited

www.andrewsuk.com

Copyright © Harriet Curtis-Lowe

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright holder for which application should be addressed in the first instance to the publishers. No liability shall be attached to the author, the copyright holder or the publishers for loss or damage of any nature suffered as a result of the reliance on the reproduction of any of the contents of this publication or any errors or omissions in the contents. This publication was written by the author without MOD resource and/or assistance. The views and opinions expressed in this book are those of the author alone and should not be taken to represent those of HMG, MOD, the RAF or any government agency.

Dedication

To my daughter, Bethany Hope and my son, William Gabriel; to my parents, Karen and Tim Lowe; to my sister and brother, Emily Rowntree and Matthew Lowe; to my friend, Theresa McGouran. And finally, of course, to the man who has changed the course of my life, the great love of my life, Kranthi Chaithanya Tadikonda.

Story

The little boy stood barefoot on the dusty roof looking up at the Indian moon.

One day I will fly the skies, he willed. He stretched out his arms and careered around the roof, feet hardened from the debris. And my wife, she will be like Aishywarya Bachchan, with green eyes that pierce my soul. Krishna, Krishna, he chanted happily, in song with the crickets.

The young girl sat on the long outstretched arm of the pink-blossomed tree, watching the boys charge round mindlessly playing tag. Her green eyes glistened.

I want to be Prime Minister. I want to change the world, she thought. I have learnt strength, drive and fire from boys - give me mindfulness and the heart of a woman.

Part one - A journey

Flying into Kandahar

Trust that there is a purpose for us and for our lives, whether we can see it or not. For sure, there is, there is. For sure there is

Jamiluddin Morris Zahuri

The noise from the C130 was far louder than I had imagined it would be, its engines growling and spluttering like an aging car, a constant drone that disrupted the thoughts and distracted the mind. Perhaps that was intentional, I pondered, pushing the soft yellow earplugs further into my ears and attempting to arrange myself more comfortably in the metal seat. I’m not sure what I had been expecting when I arrived at the check-in at Brize Norton on a warm day in early July. It had looked very similar to a normal departure lounge - check-in desks, vending machines, rows of plastic seats filled with sleeping bodies, nervous faces, and discarded newspapers strewn around. Of course there were the obvious differences, such as the clothes that we were all wearing and the luggage neatly packed into black bags and rucksacks. I was invited to board the aircraft first, a privilege usually reserved for business and first class passengers on a commercial airline. As we took off and I waited for my vegetarian meal to arrive, the ritual was comfortingly familiar: a small tray placed precariously onto a tiny table, foil lids, plastic cutlery and salty food that always left me with a dry mouth.

Are you okay? enquired the man with kind eyes and a gentle manner seated next to me as we settled back into the six-hour flight. I nodded.

First time? he asked. I nodded again; he squeezed my hand reassuringly then stretched out his legs out and closed his eyes.

I was no stranger to new experiences. I had just returned from India where I had lived in a world so different to my own that I had almost lost track of reality. India was a world of colour and vibrancy, of devastating poverty and spiritual richness: now I was flying out to another kind of reality altogether. A reality that bites at the fundamental moral make-up of anyone who plays a role in it. A reality that makes your heart stop then race, so that you feel your chest will explode. Everything that I had worked for physically, mentally and spiritually, would be realised in just over five hours’ time when we touched down into the sandy heat that would devour us and would steal my soul for the next three months.

I whispered a prayer to myself and tried to focus on what might lie ahead, beyond the dirty metal of the spluttering aircraft. I had joined the military to make a difference in the world and to force myself to be a better person. In the past, when I had debated the moralities of ‘just wars’ and the selective application of democracy throughout history, I had felt that my understanding lacked substance. How could I argue for and against something that I had never experienced? I often wondered this with our politicians, so quick to declare wars to protect ‘our national security’ - yet not one of them had faced the realities of war. I rubbed my fingers over my necklace, a grubby gold cross given to me by a dear friend, Ronnie, before she died, and a small silver tag inscribed with words from the Qur’an, given to me by my friend Noreen, who is so strong and steadfast yet so humble, with a spirituality and energy that just radiates out of her. It was Noreen who had inspired me to research Islam further. I constantly reached for my chain for reassurance and as a reminder of my two friends.

We are about to begin the descent into Kandahar. Please don your helmets and body armour and prepare to land. The posh English accent pierced the engine noise and my thoughts to reaffirm that my home for the next three months was Kandahar, Afghanistan.

I scrambled around to find my helmet, which had rolled teasingly into the aisle, placed it onto my head, tightened the chin strap and fastened my body armour. The lights then flickered and went out and my stomach surged as the aircraft began its descent through the dusty night air into Afghanistan. Memories and emotions raged through my mind, from excitement at furthering my journey in life to worry for my family and how they must be feeling. Flying into Kandahar in the darkness was an eerie experience. Men and women sat silently in the blackness, alone with their thoughts, of families, children, wives and homes; thoughts of the different tasks that we would all be taking on, and whether the plane might be targeted by IDF (indirect fire) on our way into the airfield. I knew that my emotions, strengths and weaknesses would be tested every single day and I prayed that my family would be able to cope with the worry. I allowed my mind to wander back to my Indian Adventure, where I had abandoned my higher sense of judgement and rationality to book a flight out to India only weeks after Kranthi, my Indian-born boyfriend, and I had officially ‘become an item’.

All booked, Mrs Slow.

It’s ‘Miss’ actually and ‘Lowe’, I’d reminded her for the third time during our conversation. Great - thank you. I can’t believe I have just done it!

You will have a wonderful time. India is a welcoming hostess. Enjoy and please use Dial a Flight again.

I’d put the phone down with a gulp. A slightly rash decision? I was prone to acting on instinct: my family had stood back in horror, for example, when I’d announced I was going to cycle from John O’Groats to Land’s End with no training whatsoever and a bike barely suited for riding across a road. Somehow though, I’d made it in one piece and raised a little money for charity. Would I succeed this time? For my Indian trip, I had had a 16-hour flight, changing in Dubai to meet Kranthi’s parents, who had referred to me as ‘white girl’ for the last three years and who spoke very minimal English. I had known nothing of Hyderabad (other than that it was known as the ‘City of Pearls’) but had felt such an inner calling to go that the voice simply could not be ignored. Looking back I now realise that we should never ignore that inner voice: it is our compass, our connection to something far, far deeper.

Kranthi was very intelligent but had absolutely no common sense or, as far as I could see, any sense of responsibility. I had been excited about seeing him, but this had only marginally outweighed my strong reservations about placing my life entirely in his hands. The Qur’an says that ‘God does not burden a soul beyond that it can bear’, and this phrase had swum into my mind every time I had considered cancelling my trip, picturing myself sitting alone, being stared at by eyes that clearly despised me, with angry relatives berating me in a language I couldn’t comprehend while Kranthi -oblivious to it all - abandoned me to go and play cricket or something equally unforgivable.

The C130 rattled a little. I returned to my reality. He had been worth the risk.

I heard his voice now: I will meet you on the bridge tonight; wrap up warm because it’s cold outside. I will be standing on the bridge waiting for you at about midnight, so don’t be late. And sure enough in my dreams he would be there, with his cheesy grin, dressed in my dad’s green wellies and oversized blue coat, loosely wrapping an arm around my shoulder as we sat side by side swinging our legs above the stream.

‘Morning, honey!’

Every time you smile at someone, it is an action of love, a gift to that person

Mother Teresa

I awoke, my heart racing, my temperature soaring as if a part of me had flown my resting body and travelled to another world while I slept. An owl hooted, as she often did during my midnight wakefulness, returning me to the comfort of my double bed and whitewashed room in Birmingham, England. I could hear Kranthi’s remarkably loud snoring from across the hall. A barrage of images unfurled from my dream as his image came into my mind. Men in brightly coloured sequinned clothes danced to a rhythm I had never felt before. There were beautiful feminine women swirling everywhere, with flowing saris, glossy hair and and seductive eyes. And he was there, sitting in the huge, extravagantly decorated hall, amid fairy-lights, flashing statues and grinning living buddhas. He looked princely, wearing a red kaftan and bindi, slimmer, older. He stared at me, across the room. It was his wedding day. His bride was beautiful, in a green and gold sari, her henna-clad hands placed sedately on her lap, her huge brown eyes encased in make-up. I felt a pain in the pit of my stomach, a loss. An invisible force began pushing me towards him but the beautiful bride pointed and laughed. Kranthi looked at my feet and then looked away, ashamed. I was wearing a stunning red and gold sari with chunky, masculine, combat boots. I cringed and tried to hide; his embarrassment to be associated with me was painful, tangible. An older woman, dressed in white with a bindi, moved towards me angrily. The room darkened and began to spin like a whirlpool...

I shook my head and focussed on the owl. That was the second strange dream I had in the past week about Kranthi - maybe it was all the pictures of potential brides he had been showing me lately. Something had begun to stir in me. We were best friends and now we were flatmates. I had no desire for him whatsoever other than friendship. But now these dreams: they had begun to haunt me. They had begun to change the shape of my heart until hearing his breathing became soothing and I wished that he was nearer. The owl hooted again and jolted me out of my thoughts.

Kranthi and I had met two years earlier. I’d walked through the revolving glass doors at the vibrant Holmes Place Health Club to begin another day, in my first ‘proper job’ as a fitness instructor and personal trainer. I had left home to move in with my then-boyfriend and start my working life in the unfamiliar and slightly daunting city of Birmingham. The city was almost the polar opposite of Hereford where I had been born, and which had somehow managed to remain as true to traditional England as any small town could. The cultural diversity that swept over me like a tidal wave on my first day at Holmes Place highlighted in one fell swoop how far from reality Hereford was. I had never really spoken to anyone with an ethnic background before, other than ordering a curry at my local Indian restaurant. Muslim attire, including burkas, skull caps and headscarves were utterly foreign to me and as intimidating as anything new can be. It was both eye-opening and liberating that not everybody had to fit into the box of ‘well-educated, well-rounded, white middle-class university graduate’. Within a week I had overcome the ignorant preconceptions I had brought with me from my very nice, sheltered private schooling and I was socialising freely with all cultures, backgrounds and religions.

As I walked through the turnstile on that crisp March morning, an unfamiliar, jovial voice greeted me: Morning, honey.

I swung round to see a grinning Indian man in an oversized suit behind the red-and-white marble reception desk. I smiled back, amused by his indiscriminate use of the word ‘honey’ for all the men and women who squeezed through the turnstile on their way into the club, and continued my routine walk towards the gym. I had no idea then that this would be the man that I would fall in love with and want to spend the rest of my life with. Many years later when we talked of our first meeting and how he used to call men ‘honey’ thinking it was a standard English greeting, he recoiled at the number of butch bodybuilders who looked as though they would happily jump over the counter and throttle him.

His greeting sparked a most wonderful friendship. During its beginnings, I vividly remember that he had told someone he thought I was gorgeous and everyone had teased him.

Gradually our exchange of smiles and greetings became small-talk which soon developed into deep, personal conversations about life and the universe. We talked more and more until one day, my then unhappy relationship finally collapsed and Kranthi moved into my pristine white flat in Walmley, with its neat little patio and electronic gates, to keep me company for a few days and rebuild my utterly shattered confidence. Initially he brought just a change of underwear with him, but before I knew it a tatty old Indian suitcase had arrived and he had moved in permanently as my flatmate.

Angels come into your life when you least expect it and often we fail to notice them at the time. Kranthi came into my life at exactly the right time, as I was walking dejectedly down a rainy path. He was the rainbow and light of hope that I needed to move away from a destructive relationship and brave life in a big city, pretty much alone, apart from my friend Theresa McGouran. Theresa had come into my life at a similar time, in a similar way, at a similar crossroads in her own life. The three of us became utterly inseparable.

At the time Kranthi was bright-eyed, a little tubby, and extremely naïve. He couldn’t communicate with women. Indians are generally incredibly polite people who are eager to please and very expressive, but Kranthi wasn’t westernised at all and lacked confidence. But he was a breath of fresh air. I was recovering from a very destructive relationship and just wanted to let my hair down. The first night that we went out together, a few weeks after the initial ‘hello honey’, he passed out on a wooden picnic table outside the club. I knew that I had found my new best friend after feeling so alone and isolated in a new city.

The wonderful thing about a perfectly balanced male-female friendship is the easiness between each other. The ‘Walmley days’ with Kranthi and Theresa were uninhibited, wildly irresponsible, and wonderful. Sometimes in life you need to blow out the cobwebs and lose yourself in a friendship or in a moment in time before embarking on a more spiritual, meaningful path. This was our moment: no responsibilities, no financial commitments and no stressful careers. We had the time of our lives. We threw outrageous parties, went clubbing three times a week and met some amazing people. Most of all, we danced. In dancing the three of us found escapism, freedom and happiness within the safety of our friendship.

Before I tell you about our journey, I’d like to share a bit of him. Kranthi Chaithanya Tadikonda is 31 years old. This fact was a surprise to him: a year ago, we celebrated his 29th birthday and then when we asked him his date of birth he worked out that he was actually thirty.

I can’t believe that I’ve lost a year of my life, he exclaimed in mortification, while